The State of Things
by Mithrilquill
Summary: Wikus finds his place and his ways in the aftermath of District 9 and the Mothership Depart, while coming to terms with his isolation.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I am not Neill Blomkamp or Terri Tatchell. We all have dreams, though.

The State of Things

The Prawn was gangly and seemingly weak, but his energy betrayed him. He crawled quickly and determined but with a clumsy agility that left him cut deeply on the angular hip by the rusted metal of the torn fencing. He exploded back into District 10, running with an uncontrolled speed toward the nearest burrow of tents. His body moved lightly and awkwardly along, as though he were unaware of its limits -like a child only recently learned to walk, with wobbly knees.

He surveyed the surrounding camp quickly before ducking into a familiar tent. He heaved with relief, letting his body sink to the grimy floor. He was unseen by the whole of his burrow. He thanked their audibly violent preoccupations. Their hollering and ruckus was deafening at all times of day and night, but it let Wikus escape scrutiny. The rare, quiet Prawn was let alone. And he never spoke a word to anyone.

Another successful journey to the Johannesburg suburbs. He winced at the sting of his wounded hip. It could have been much worse, he reflected. It could have been something like the first journey he made, before he knew not to make the return trip from the city the same night he arrived. He remembered the burning African sun rising already, barely as he reached the city limits and started his trek across the open desert. He remembered the sinking feeling in his stomach as he lost the cover of night. And as he was forced off his track, by tens of kilometers to avoid the heavily armed patrols and how he became lost out there. He preferred that though, to capture. He knew MNU's absence of hesitation too well, how it served to kill any Prawn seen out of bounds without a second thought. Even the children, no older than little Oliver. He remembered supposing he might not make it back to District 10 after all. What a pitiful way to finally bow out, after everything he had been through. Then he remembered to forget, and he shut his mind to those thoughts and instead he exhaled and gave the closest thing to a smile as he could muster, after all- he planted the carefully crafted blossom on his former front porch, and he saw it disappear by next dusk. It really was a success.

Though sometimes it wasn't worth it to Wikus. Instead perhaps, he reasoned, he should lay low until Christopher fulfilled his promise, if he ever would. Instead of getting himself killed -or worse in the mean time. But he always came over to it. Just being near to where Tania walked and slept and went about her life gave him hope like no other. Though the overall lack of human contact sickened him, and maddened him. Watching the MNU inspectors and newly instated physicians(a ploy at appearing humane to the ever growing Alien Rights Organizations) was simply not enough. Especially because, to be frank (with himself) things were much worse now.

With no mothership hovering over the city to make its people feel secure in its unmoving, inactivity, lifelessness… Now that it was gone, only a paranoid, uncertain hastiness remained. And a nervous shame, Wikus suspected, hoped. As the people waited for a possible return, they did not hesitate at the chance to thin the Prawn numbers. Though nothing was ever spoke of. Patched up government reports and speculations examined the mothership departure. They called it a machine malfunction: the ship returning to its launch base by default. They even covered up the craft that Christopher and Oliver piloted back to the mothership, Wikus inferred from the old newspapers that wrapped his bartered goat's heads. He never saw a word of it.

But Wikus felt suddenly heavy and uneasy and his thoughts lost all coherence. His heavy body crashed fully onto the floor from where he sat, a quiet sound.

* * *

"Hello, hello, Mr John, open your eyes," a strange voice drilled into the Prawn's strained head as he regained his consciousness.

He struggled to open his yellow eyes. Everything was a blur of white.

"Ah, there you are," the voice was satisfied. Wikus's eyes focused and he took in his surroundings. He was laying on his back in a large white tent, much larger and neater and cleaner than any of the Prawn dwellings. And then he realized the Voice. A petite body in a matching white hazmat protective suit. It was frighteningly familiar and Wikus jumped from the table, backing himself into a corner. He shouted noises, incoherence. He tried to form words for the first time, only to be quieted again by his confusion. His body could not form the sounds or words that it once could. And though he could understand the Prawn language, no human was ever able to enunciate the dialect. He supposed he wasn't human anymore, but still he did not know how to begin. The puzzled Voice halted the guards, armed and slowly closing in on the unpredictable Prawn.

"Mr John... That is your name, isn't that correct?" the Voice was was straightfoward but open to a dialogue, something rare among a human addressing a Prawn. She picked up a nearby chart and read over it.

"You must be confused. You are in the MNU MH, Mr John..." she referred to the chart, "Mr John Matthews. The MNU Mobile Hospital."

His eyes glazed over and he fell to his knees, suddenly aware of his weakness. He often forgot that he was not recognizable anymore. He forgot about the stolen identification papers he took from a victim of some uknown circumstance before leaving District 9 with a new persona. He remained quiet on the ground. He labored to breath. The suited Voice approached him carefully to the discomfort of the guards. They shifted uneasily.

A gloved hand reached out slowly toward Wikus, with his head down and his eyes closed. But before it could rest on his shoulder, he lifted his head. She brought her hand back and away, and looked into his eyes. She flashed a small light and inspected his pupils.

"I am your physician now, Mr John. And you lost a lot of blood, man. You need to be more careful," she raised her eyebrows. He could barely make out her face at all, behind the clear plasteel of the face mask.

"You're lucky I have a little friend and he brought you to my attention. You could have died, Mr John." She took one last look at his foreign face and and its alien features before standing fully before his kneeling figure.

"You don't talk a lot, but that's alright. We were only waiting for you to wake up. You can go home and rest now. I don't want to see you here again."

He stood warily and walked toward the opening of the tent that she gestured to, never keeping his back to any of the physicians or guards for more than a second at a time. He emerged into the bright, hot sun and orientated himself. He was nearly two kilometers from his burrow. He sighed and took a deep breath. His body was fatigued. It would be a long walk home. But things could always be worse, he reminded himself again. But he was safe for now and out of trouble's way.

He never realized the tiny pitter patter of the concerned Prawnling from his burrow shadowing his footsteps. And he never realized how close he had come to human contact.

* * *

**A/N: **'Plasteel' taken from KOTOR. Also, forgive the dialogue. I am totally unaware of the speaking habits of South African people. Lol. So I tried my best, don't judge it too harshly. Lastly, I may expand on this, depending on feedback, though it is stand alone. So pending status, possibly will turn out to be a One-Shot.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I am not Neill Blomkamp or Terri Tatchell. We all have dreams, though.

The State of Things

Chapter Two

"So you're telling me there's nothing to be done?" she said flatly into the cordless, balancing carefully on her shoulder as she stood over the stove cooking inattentively. The saute sizzle was loud and the little girl seated at the table strained to hear the voice on the other line of the telephone but failed. Her mother turned off the burner and backed away from the hot pan.

"Look, man: I know I'm going to lose my job eventually, OK? You're wasting your time if you trying to talk me out of it. Anyway, you are my lawyer. I don't pay you to talk me out of things. I pay you to advise me and then I make the decision. And we work at that. You should know that's how it is. You want me to get another lawyer, or what?"

She took two dishes from the cabinet and set them on the counter top. Her eyes welled at his divulging.

"Are you joking, Karl?"

_"I'm not even supposed to be telling you this, Lydia. I have to drop all MNU cases or I lose **my** job._

_You should try another firm. Try Cape Town."_

"Try Cape Town? Yeah, man, because every other law firm here is already on the MNU payroll? Is that it?"

The line was quiet.

"Hello? ...Karl?"

_"Yes, Dr Robillard. That is precisely why you should consider a firm in Cape Town. Now, as of tomorrow I am officially under the employ of MNU. I suggest you chose your words carefully with me from now on, considering I am legally bound to disclose any information I receive and deem potentially harmful to my new client. I'm sorry for you and yours. I'm sorry for your loss."_

"Karl?" the line was quiet. She slammed the phone down against the tile counter top. She took a deep breath.

"Mummy?"

Lydia wiped her reddened cheeks and cleared her throat.

"Yes, baby. I'm sorry, I'm off the line now."

She served the two and took her seat across the shaken girl. Her face was blank. All the lawyer's fees had already nearly dried up her husband's life insurance policy and MNU's settlement money and as one of the CAE's(Committee for Alien Equality) appointed overseeing physicians, she took a pay cut. To be honest with herself, she could not afford to go to another lawyer.

"Emmy? Eat you're dinner. Its already going to be midnight, baby."

"Its burned," she lowered her head.

Lydia looked down to her own plate to find blackened chicken and vegetables burned beyond edibility.

"Fantastic. What is it then, Chinese or Kabab?"

"Chinese," Emmy giggled.

* * *

"Why is it called Kung Pao, Mummy?" Emmy asked between eagerly eating spoonfuls of her favorite dish. Lydia smiled from behind her newspaper.

"Because when the little Chinese boys and girls did not eat all of their chicken, they got kicked in the bum by one of the Emperor's ninjas and it made the sound Kung Pao. And its always been called that, ever since old China. Your Daddy told me so."

Emmy forced a smile for her mother before she returned to her paper. A small article caught her eye.

_'Seemingly Harmless Prawn Harasses West Joburg'_

_...But don't be fooled Suburban Lower-West Side. This unidentified Prawn frequenter, reported on nearly 10 separate occasions total was twice reported yesterday to be travelling with an Alien firearm between two West Johannesburg gated communities. Local authorities believe the frequent, nocturnal visitor to be connected to a recent death in said communities and advise residents of the connected area to self-adjust their curfews to avoid alien confrontation. No further information has been released at this time, aside from one published photograph and a physical description of the culprit. [P8]_

"Hurry and finish, Emmy. You need to get to sleep. You have school, baby."

"_No_, tomorrow is _Saturday_."

"Oh," Lydia corrected herself as she turned to page 8. A large quarter-page photograph stretched across the paper. It showed a crouching Prawn ducking behind a garage with a small, shiny metal object in his tentacled hand. There was a striking familiarity in his distorted yellow eyes that Lydia could not place.

* * *

Wikus's head pounded still, days after his hospital stay. Though his body ached less and his hip had nearly healed entirely, he could not shake the splitting headache that nagged at base of his neck. It woke him at all hours as he attempted to sleep away his recovery.

He peered between the slit in his tattered tent cover. It was nearly morning, the sun had not yet risen but the cloudless sky had already flooded with a clear light blue that promised another nearly unbearably hot day. And still he had not eaten since the night before he left for Johannesburg. Almost five days ago.

He crawled to his feet and ventured toward the junkyard that homed the tear in the fence that freed him from the camp on many occasions. He drunkenly patrolled the junkyard, making sure to pay careful attention to the state of the scrap pile that camouflaged the hole. It was still in tact. He took care of his bodily business, which always made him uneasy and humiliated him to some degree, though nowadays he didn't much care about appearances. As he became accustomed to the fact that he was no longer even human. But he looked away as the function was carried out. Admittedly, a cowardly thing to do. But admittedly he was a coward. He finished and made his way home.

He came to his tent but before he could duck inside, a noise called him to attention. It was the loud engines of four MNU transports. Presumably the Mobile Hospitals moving to their respective locations. Wikus remembered the woman who treated him. It was his first encounter with another human since the Mothership Departure, and to his repeated surprise and gratitude, she treated him with respect. But the sooner he forgot the ordeal the better, he came to, resigning himself to push anything(good or bad, though more often unfortunate) that reaffirmed himself an Alien out of his head for sanity's sake.

But he was grateful, after all.

He ducked into the tent to find a half eaten can of cat food next to the dried-bloody pallet of newspapers he slept on. He picked it up and inspected it. It was freshly opened. Not old or molded or even dried. He sat on his bed and quickly pollished off the tin. His body seemed to ease at the intake of some sort of sustenance and he revelled in it. He would have laughed if he knew how.

The corner of the slit of the tent lifted just slightly. Wikus's throat caught. What sort of trap could this be? But before he could continue down that trail of thought, a tiny figure made himself known. It was a Prawnling barely taller than little Oliver.

The Prawnling made a gesture that almost resembled a smile. And Wikus found himself matching the gesture as he realized the cat food smeared across the little one's face.

The child cautiously made his way toward Wikus and eventually came to be sitting before him. Wikus remembered the Doctor's words.

_"You're lucky I have a little friend and he brought you to my attention. You could have died, Mr John."_

"For you," the Prawnling spoke in his native tongue. He pulled the edge of the can down toward him and observed its emptiness.

"You were very hungry." He _smiled_ again. Wikus remained quiet. The Prawnling stood finally and lingered momentarily.

"Do not go again. They will kill you." He pointed toward the junkyard and Wikus could only guess and what the child knew.

The Prawnling waited one last time for a reaction from the sickly Prawn but alas, he remained silent. He made his way out, dejected but satisfied that he had at least _fed_ his indebted.

"Thank you," Wikus spoke, quite poorly the words he knew to mean a thanksgiving -peering out from his tent. He found the dialect poured easily from his changed mouth. It would only get easier he was sure. The Prawnling was barely able to decipher the words through the strange accent but he dipped his head happily in acceptance. He turned and ran off and disappeared behind the rubble.

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you, reviewers! **Teal Thanatos**, **Sugar Bird**, **Bellskie**, **Sora Hacker thekeyblademaster**, **Sing the Muse**, **UndeadHarlot**, **AngelGardian666**, **Anne Ominous**,** Anceylee Star**, **The Wingless One**, and **Altern**! Let me know what you think, again. Won't you? :)


End file.
